Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you donât realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain (portable ebook reader TXT) đ
- Author: Mark Twain
Book online «The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain (portable ebook reader TXT) đ». Author Mark Twain
âOh, they mock at me! They will go and tell. Oh! why came I here to cast away my life?â
He walked up and down the floor, filled with nameless fears, listening, starting at every trifling sound. Presently the door swung open, and a silken page saidâ
âThe Lady Jane Grey.â
The door closed and a sweet young girl, richly clad, bounded toward him. But she stopped suddenly, and said in a distressed voiceâ
âOh, what aileth thee, my lord?â
Tomâs breath was nearly failing him; but he made shift to stammer outâ
âAh, be merciful, thou! In sooth I am no lord, but only poor Tom Canty of Offal Court in the city. Prithee let me see the prince, and he will of his grace restore to me my rags, and let me hence unhurt. Oh, be thou merciful, and save me!â
By this time the boy was on his knees, and supplicating with his eyes and uplifted hands as well as with his tongue. The young girl seemed horror-stricken. She cried outâ
âO my lord, on thy knees?âand to me!â
Then she fled away in fright; and Tom, smitten with despair, sank down, murmuringâ
âThere is no help, there is no hope. Now will they come and take me.â
Whilst he lay there benumbed with terror, dreadful tidings were speeding through the palace. The whisperâfor it was whispered alwaysâflew from menial to menial, from lord to lady, down all the long corridors, from story to story, from saloon to saloon, âThe prince hath gone mad, the prince hath gone mad!â Soon every saloon, every marble hall, had its groups of glittering lords and ladies, and other groups of dazzling lesser folk, talking earnestly together in whispers, and every face had in it dismay. Presently a splendid official came marching by these groups, making solemn proclamationâ
âIN THE NAME OF THE KING!
Let none list to this false and foolish matter, upon pain of death, nor discuss the same, nor carry it abroad. In the name of the King!â
The whisperings ceased as suddenly as if the whisperers had been stricken dumb.
Soon there was a general buzz along the corridors, of âThe prince! See, the prince comes!â
Poor Tom came slowly walking past the low-bowing groups, trying to bow in return, and meekly gazing upon his strange surroundings with bewildered and pathetic eyes. Great nobles walked upon each side of him, making him lean upon them, and so steady his steps. Behind him followed the court-physicians and some servants.
Presently Tom found himself in a noble apartment of the palace and heard the door close behind him. Around him stood those who had come with him. Before him, at a little distance, reclined a very large and very fat man, with a wide, pulpy face, and a stern expression. His large head was very grey; and his whiskers, which he wore only around his face, like a frame, were grey also. His clothing was of rich stuff, but old, and slightly frayed in places. One of his swollen legs had a pillow under it, and was wrapped in bandages. There was silence now; and there was no head there but was bent in reverence, except this manâs. This stern-countenanced invalid was the dread Henry VIII. He saidâand his face grew gentle as he began to speakâ
âHow now, my lord Edward, my prince? Hast been minded to cozen me, the good King thy father, who loveth thee, and kindly useth thee, with a sorry jest?â
Poor Tom was listening, as well as his dazed faculties would let him, to the beginning of this speech; but when the words âme, the good Kingâ fell upon his ear, his face blanched, and he dropped as instantly upon his knees as if a shot had brought him there. Lifting up his hands, he exclaimedâ
âThou the King? Then am I undone indeed!â
This speech seemed to stun the King. His eyes wandered from face to face aimlessly, then rested, bewildered, upon the boy before him. Then he said in a tone of deep disappointmentâ
âAlack, I had believed the rumour disproportioned to the truth; but I fear me âtis not so.â He breathed a heavy sigh, and said in a gentle voice, âCome to thy father, child: thou art not well.â
Tom was assisted to his feet, and approached the Majesty of England, humble and trembling. The King took the frightened face between his hands, and gazed earnestly and lovingly into it awhile, as if seeking some grateful sign of returning reason there, then pressed the curly head against his breast, and patted it tenderly. Presently he saidâ
âDost not know thy father, child? Break not mine old heart; say thou knowâst me. Thou dost know me, dost thou not?â
âYea: thou art my dread lord the King, whom God preserve!â
âTrue, trueâthat is wellâbe comforted, tremble not so; there is none here would hurt thee; there is none here but loves thee. Thou art better now; thy ill dream passethâisât not so? Thou wilt not miscall thyself again, as they say thou didst a little while agone?â
âI pray thee of thy grace believe me, I did but speak the truth, most dread lord; for I am the meanest among thy subjects, being a pauper born, and âtis by a sore mischance and accident I am here, albeit I was therein nothing blameful. I am but young to die, and thou canst save me with one little word. Oh speak it, sir!â
âDie? Talk not so, sweet princeâpeace, peace, to thy troubled heartâthou shalt not die!â
Tom dropped upon his knees with a glad cryâ
âGod requite thy mercy, O
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